


you're lost at sea (i'll command your boat to me again)

by buskuta



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, American Revolution, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dialogue Heavy, Gen, basically a modern recount of the time everyone thought that hamilton died
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26020336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buskuta/pseuds/buskuta
Summary: The tent is silent for a long time, save for Lee’s panting and the angry rain outside. Lafayette processes his words, relays them in his head over and over again, but there’s some kind of disconnect, he must have heard Lee incorrectly, he must have –“What did you just say?” he whispers.“Hamilton’s dead,” Lee says bleakly, and Lafayette feels something in his chest break.
Relationships: Aaron Burr & Alexander Hamilton, Alexander Hamilton & George Washington, Alexander Hamilton & Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette, Alexander Hamilton & John Laurens & Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette, Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Comments: 10
Kudos: 178





	you're lost at sea (i'll command your boat to me again)

**Author's Note:**

> based on [this historical fact](https://ifunny.co/picture/so-apparently-at-one-point-during-the-american-revolution-alexander-64OhCXDz3) where hamilton and lee were tearing up bags of flour during the war when the british started coming, and when they were sailing back across the river they had to jump ship and everyone thought hamilton died, so they were all drinking to his memory when he showed up.
> 
> this is a modern au but it takes place in the summer before a winter's ball.

“You sure you got them?”

“Yes, yes.” Lafayette waves off Laurens, hovering uncertainly, with his hand, then quickly returns it to the heavy stack of papers he’s balancing precariously in his palm. “Go on, you have a scouting mission to lead. I will be fine with these, go.”

Laurens eyes him and his shaky stack of papers warily. “Are you sure? Because I can –”

“Laurens,” Lafayette says impatiently, “you know that I am stronger than you. You will be no help. Go.”

“Fine.” Laurens slaps him on the back, and Lafayette almost drops the papers into the muddy grass with the force of it. He watches Laurens as he bounds off. “I’ll see you soon!” he calls over his shoulder.

Lafayette begins his trek to Washington’s tent. He feels as though he’s walking on a tight rope, but instead of an endless abyss below him if he drops the papers, it’s Washington’s lethal wrath. They crossed Schuylkill River less than twenty-four hours ago, narrowly missing the British by a day. They had packed up their things and sailed so quickly that it’s a wonder they didn’t leave anyone behind.

Dark clouds gather in the sky above their camp, and Lafayette prays that it doesn’t start raining while he’s outside. Laurens told him how precious the documents are -- lists of items that they had with them, and if they get ruined then they will never know if they left anything behind when they crossed the river.

He fortunately makes it to Washington’s large tent on the outskirts of camp in one piece. He can’t rap on the wood hanging from the front of the tent without dropping all of the papers, so he leans in close to the opening of the tent and strains his ears for any sign of a conversation that he’s not privy to, any sign that he shouldn’t enter.

He hears a voice that definitely belongs to Hamilton, but he can’t make out what he’s saying or if anyone else is talking. Hamilton is speaking so much that no one else could possibly get a word in edgewise, which doesn’t surprise Lafayette in the slightest. Most of the time when he sees Hamilton and Washington, Hamilton is talking rapidly without pause as Washington listens on in a mixture of exasperation and fondness. Hamilton talking incessantly like this isn’t what convinces Lafayette that Washington isn’t in the tent with him – it’s Hamilton’s tone of voice. He’s speaking far too lazily to be addressing the General, his voice practically a drawl.

Lafayette opens the tent flap with his foot and steps inside. Hamilton is sitting at Washington’s desk, spinning his globe absently as he speaks. “No, Hamilton, put the box over there.” After a brief pause, he says, “no, actually, put it over _there_.”

“What are you doing?”

Hamilton jolts so violently that he topples the globe to the ground. “ _Jeez_ , Laf, you can’t just barge in,” Hamilton says, leaning down to pick up the globe. “What if Washington was here?”

“I think you are very lucky that Washington is not here.” Lafayette walks over and carefully places the stack of papers on the desk. “Were you pretending to be His Excellency?”

Hamilton ignores him. He stands up and walks over to Lafayette and begins thumbing through the documents. “What are these?”

Lafayette slaps his hand away. “Stop that. Where is the General?”

“Said he’d be here soon. We’ll see. Hey,” he says, and takes out his phone. “Do you have service? I want to call Hercules.”

“ _Non_ , I’m sorry,” Lafayette says. “Laurens is taking his troops on a scouting mission tonight. Ask him, before he leaves, if he can call him for you if he finds a signal.”

“There may not be a scouting mission at all if the weather gets any worse.”

Lafayette wheels around and reflexively raises his hand to his temple at the sound of Washington’s deep voice. Washington waves them off and sits down heavily at his desk. “God, I miss the weather app.”

“Sir,” Lafayette says, nudging the stack of papers closer to Washington, “here are the papers you told me to retrieve.”

Washington picks up the heavy stack with an ease that makes Lafayette scowl with envy and flicks through it half-interestedly. “Thank you, Gilbert. Is everything accounted for?”

Lafayette pauses. He’d taken it for granted that Washington would have wanted to read them himself, and he tries to fight down the spike of shame for being so presumptuous. “Erm,” he says, shifting from one foot to the other as he tries to buy time, “I was under the impression that these were confidential, sir.”

Washington looks at him oddly. “Why would they be confidential? It’s a checklist, Gilbert, it’s hardly important for anything.”

Lafayette thinks about his careful walk to Washington’s tent, taking meticulous care that the papers wouldn’t get ruined, and realizes that Laurens was pulling his leg when he told him that the papers were of upmost importance. “I see.”

He pointedly ignores Hamilton’s muffled snickering and watches Washington continue to scan over the lists. “Everything seems to be – hold on.” Washington pauses, staring at the page with his brows furrowed.

“What is it, sir?” Hamilton asks.

“We’re missing _forty-eight_ bags of flour,” Washington says incredulously, staring at the paper like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “How did this happen?”

Lafayette feels his insides drop. He wasn’t aware flour is something essential to the camp, but if Washington is upset then clearly they’ve all made an error in judgment. He opens his mouth, intending to come up with an explanation on a whim, but he notices the way that Washington’s brows are knitted tight, the way his frown almost pulls his face into a scowl – he’s _angry_ , and that just about dumps ice cold water over Lafayette’s head. He doesn’t want to risk saying anything that will enrage the General further. He glances at Hamilton, hoping that he’ll pick up the slack, but Hamilton is staring at Washington, looking as horrified as Lafayette feels. He racks his brain for any reason that Washington would be this upset over flour, of all things, but he comes up empty.

“Sir,” Hamilton finally says, “we were in such a rush to get across the river; I believe that everyone only took what they thought was most important. If we’d known that you’d wanted the flour, sir, then I’m sure we would have…” he trails off and looks at Lafayette desperately. Lafayette grimaces. Even if they did remember the flour, what _could_ they have done? They couldn’t possibly have hauled a whopping forty-eight bags of flour onto a small, already packed ship.

Washington sighs. “ _I_ don’t want the flour, Alexander, but the British do. They can use them as sandbags to hide behind while under open fire. _Our_ fire.”

“I… oh.” Hamilton bites his bottom lip, and Lafayette can practically see the weight of their mistake settle upon his slim shoulders. “Sir, I… I’m deeply sorry.”

Lafayette whips his head back to look at Washington and nods vigorously. “We are _extremely_ sorry.” The last thing Lafayette wants is the General disappointed or mad at him. He’s worked so hard since he enlisted in the American army to gain the trust of General George Washington, a heroic man that’s bigger than life, and to lose that now? And over _flour_? The very thought makes him want to curl up and cry in sadness and shame. He’s a Marquis, no one of his title could forget something so trivial and yet so dire.

“It’s not your fault,” Washington says, suddenly looking very tired. “It’s not anyone’s fault, except perhaps mine. I should have emphasized the importance of taking the flour with us.” He sets the papers aside and stands up. Lafayette instinctively straightens, and from the corner of his eye he sees Hamilton set his shoulders back.

“We can’t give the enemy a tool of defence,” Washington says. He pauses, looking between the two of them carefully. “Hamilton, take some men with you and sail back across the river to retrieve the flour; Lafayette, with Laurens gone, I need you here to oversee the construction of the camp.”

Lafayette salutes and forces down the swell of envy rising within him. Redcoats will be at the other side of the river in mere hours, and it takes long enough to ride across with the small, rickety boats Congress almost didn’t bother to send them. He came to America to aid in a glorious fight, partially because he genuinely wants to help and partially because he wants to feel adrenaline that would never come from being a Marquis in France; literally racing against time on a compromised ship to fulfill a mission at the General’s orders is the ideal way to achieve that adrenaline, and though he knows that Hamilton deserves it and is more than capable of completing the mission, he can’t help but feel jealous at the prestige he’s being given.

Hamilton seems to realize the danger of the plan as well, because he gingerly says, “Sir, the boats we are equipped with will hardly carry the men required to drag the flour bags aboard in time to outrun the British, let alone actually hold all of the bags, as well as all of us.”

Washington pauses again, seeming to think for a moment. “Don’t bring the bags back here; empty them at the shore and sail back.”

“Yes, sir. How many men shall I bring?”

“No more than a dozen – however, I want you to take Charles Lee with you.”

Hamilton groans, and Lafayette cringes in sympathy for him. “Why Lee, sir?” Hamilton asks, his voice dangerously close to a whine.

“Lee is in a position of prominent leadership, and your soldiers will be more likely to work diligently if they know that they are being watched by a man of authority.”

“Sir,” Hamilton protests, “Lee is –“

“I am all too aware of your sentiments toward General Lee, Alexander, but your opinion on the man, however true, will not change my mind on this.” Washington waves his hand at him. “Dismissed. Rally up men and go at once.” Hamilton salutes, only a little begrudging, and scampers off, halfway out of the tent when Washington stops him. “Hamilton!”

Hamilton stops at the opening and turns back around. “Sir?’

“Be fast. I mean it.”

“Of course, sir.” He salutes again.

“And be careful,” Lafayette says before he can stop himself. He knows how rash Hamilton is, how he doesn’t think before he acts, and he prays to God that Hamilton won’t do anything stupid on a mission this precarious and this crunched for time.

Hamilton grins at him. “See you in a bit.”

Lafayette grows bored within thirty minutes.

The task Washington assigned him isn’t particularly difficult: the men have dismantled and rebuilt camps so many times over the course of the war that they have little problem doing it again this time around. There’s no need for him to constantly oversee the progress, and with Laurens on his scouting mission and Hamilton halfway across Schuylkill, he doesn’t have much to do. After a few hours of diligent work, the ominous clouds above them finally begin sprinkling rain, and Lafayette stops the operation for the day. They’re low on supplies, and the last thing they need is someone getting sick. He sends everyone to their tents, and loneliness finds himself in the unfortunate company of Aaron Burr, of all people.

Burr is the exact opposite of Hamilton: he’s painfully private, never voices his opinion on any matter that comes up, whether it’s on the war or if peanut butter or jelly is better, and he’s so reserved that he borders on reclusive. Lafayette honestly doesn’t know why Hamilton is friends with Burr, but if he thinks so highly of him then he can’t be _that_ bad, Lafayette thinks to himself.

“Please don’t sit on my bed,” Burr tells him after a minute of uncomfortable silence. Never mind, Lafayette takes it back. He is the worst.

“Who are you writing to?” Lafayette asks after he stands up, peering curiously over Burr’s shoulder at the paper on his desk. Burr flips it over hastily.

“No one.”

Lafayette hums. “You know, any friend of Alexander’s is a friend of mine.” He’s lying. Burr is _not_ his friend, and never will be, at this rate. “You can tell me.”

“I appreciate the sentiment,” Burr says dryly, “but I’d rather not. If it makes you feel any better, Alexander doesn’t know either.”

Lafayette doesn’t care enough about Burr or the mystery of whom he’s writing to feel bad about being left in the dark about it. He just wants to make conversation to kill time while he waits for Hamilton and Laurens to return. “It does make me feel better, thank you.”

They sit in silence for a while longer, Burr writing his letter and Lafayette counting the seconds under his breath, until the light pattering of rain outside Burr’s tent grows from a pleasant white noise to an angry roar. Something cold and wet suddenly smacks against his forehead.

“ _Esti_ ,” he hisses, and looks up. There’s a little hole in the ceiling of the tent, sharp rain pouring through it. He stands up and moves across the tent.

Burr looks up from his desk and frowns at the leak. He picks up a tin cup on his desk and puts it on the ground below the hole.

“At least you will always have drinking water,” Lafayette says. Burr doesn’t laugh, just sits back down at his desk and continues writing. That’s another difference between he and Hamilton – when Hamilton writes, he becomes so absorbed that he doesn’t hear Lafayette – or anyone – come in and speak. Burr hears him, but deliberately ignores him, the prick.

Lafayette sighs as he listens to the rain raging outside, hitting the top of the tent so hard that he’s half convinced it will collapse. “I hope that Laurens is not stuck outside in this weather.”

“Maybe he found a farmhouse or a town to take refuge in,” Burr says absently, not looking up from his desk.

“Perhaps,” Lafayette says. “I feel bad for Alexander. He’s tearing up bags out in the rain.” He stops, suddenly, and feels his body freeze up. Hamilton has been gone a suspiciously long time. How many hours has it been? Four, five? _Be fast_ , Washington told him, and surely he would, out in the middle of a storm with the risk of the British catching up.

“Burr,” Lafayette says, desperately trying to keep his voice even and nonchalant, “how long would you say it takes to cross Schuylkill River?”

Burr looks at him in a mixture of exasperation and suspicion. “Don’t you know? You were there with me when we crossed.”

“Hamilton has been gone for a long time, hasn’t he?” Lafayette says.

Burr pauses and looks away for a moment, seemingly in thought. “I imagine they had to take their time crossing,” he says slowly. “The storm isn’t good sailing weather.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Lafayette says, his stomach sinking with dread. Even if they did have to take their time, the British could have caught up to them on the shore, or the slow speed of their boat could have been a bad mixture with the angry water…

“You asked me who I was writing to,” Burr says, whether in an attempt to calm Lafayette’s nerves or his own, Lafayette isn’t sure. “If I tell you, you can’t tell _anyone_.”

Lafayette puts a hand to his heart. “Burr, you have my word that your secret will not leave this tent.”

“You can’t even tell Hamilton and Laurens.”

“I promise I will not tell them.”

Burr hesitates, eyeing Lafayette warily, before speaking. “I’m writing to a woman.”

Five minutes ago, Lafayette would have grinned and crowed, would have poked Burr in the ribs and demanded to know everything. Now, it’s all he can do to smile supportively, but he’s fairly certain it comes out as more of a grimace. “A girl? Do I know her?”

Burr shakes his head. “I met her when we were fighting in Georgia. You were still in France, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I was,” Lafayette says, thinking back. “And you lost Georgia to the British, did you not? Look at what happened without me here.”

Burr gives him a strained smile, and it’s probably the friendliest that they’ve been tonight. Lafayette walks over to Burr’s desk and looks at the letter, warmth briefly flooding over his anxiety when Burr doesn’t hide the paper.

“Let me see this,” Lafayette says, starting to read the letter. He needs something, anything, to keep his mind off Hamilton. “Why won’t you wait to send her an email?”

“I don’t know when we’ll find service,” Burr says. “This could get to her before an email does.”

“John may have service right now,” Lafayette says absently as he reads. “If he’s found a town.”

“I’ll have to ask him when he returns.”

Lafayette clicks his tongue and puts his index finger on a particular line. “Burr, you cannot possibly say this to your girlfriend.”

“What?” Burr leans over to read the sentence. “Why not?”

“Look at this! _I can’t wait to see you again_. This is so dry! You are writing to a _lady_. You have to be more eloquent. Alexander can help you with this.”

“I don’t need Alexander’s help. Gilbert,” Burr says, and Lafayette swallows back his irritation at being called his first name by someone that’s not Washington, “this is the twenty-first century. Women don’t want to be treated daintily like that; they want to be treated as _equals_.”

“Still,” Lafayette says, “you have to woo her! You have to – to – “

He’s interrupted by the tent flap opening, spraying him with water and increasing the volume of the rain by tenfold. Charles Lee steps inside, sopping wet, panting like a dog.

“Lee!” Burr says, “don’t come in here like that, you’ll get my tent wet.”

Lee ignores Burr. “Lafayette,” he says breathlessly, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I was going to tell Washington, but you should know first, and I can’t find Laurens anywhere –“

“Lee,” Lafayette says, already feeling his chest tighten with anxiety. “What is it?”

“It’s Hamilton,” Lee says, his voice cracking on Hamilton’s name like fine china. “He’s drowned. Just now.”

The tent is silent for a long time, save for Lee’s panting and the angry rain outside. Lafayette processes his words, relays them in his head over and over again, but there’s some kind of disconnect, he must have heard Lee incorrectly, he must have –

“What did you just say?” Lafayette whispers.

“Hamilton’s dead,” Lee says bleakly, and Lafayette feels something in his chest break. “We were across the river, it was pouring rain, we were emptying flour, and we saw the Redcoats coming. We started loading back onto the ship but me and Hamilton and a few others got left behind. There was this – this raft, on the shore, we piled on it and started heading back across, but the British opened fire –“ Lee swallows hard, takes a few heaving breaths, then continues. “It was raining, it was dark - they shot Tench – Tench died, we jumped ship… I swam the rest of the way and waited for the others. Hamilton was the only one that didn’t come to shore.”

Lafayette stares at Lee. Tries to gauge if this is a joke. Hamilton, who works non-stop, couldn’t swim to the shore. Hamilton, who fights tooth and nail every second of the day, couldn’t stay afloat the waves. Hamilton, whose brain is constantly working, constantly in overdrive, is dead. Gone.

Lafayette puts his hands to his temples. “ _No_.” It comes out more a whine than a word, more a moan than anything else. The rain continues on, relentless outside. He can almost see the waves in the river now, violent and huge, and Hamilton’s lying at the bottom, cold and alone –

“Thank you, Lee.” Burr’s voice drags Lafayette out of his swirling ocean of thoughts, and Lafayette actually remembers, for the first time since Lee showed up, that Burr is here. Lafayette looks at him. His eyes are glassy and his face is scrunched up unpleasantly.

There’s something akin to remorse swimming in Lee’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s…” Burr says, and Lafayette is deliriously grateful that Burr’s talking, because he doesn’t think that he could form words right now. “Thank you,” he repeats.

Lee stays a moment longer, looking between the two of them with something that Lafayette can’t quite place, and then leaves. Burr and Lafayette stand in the tent, alone in a suffocating silence. Lafayette hears the rain still, hears the faint flicker of Burr’s candle, but it’s smothered, as if he’s submerged in water. He wonders, hysterically, if this is what Hamilton feels like right now, head dense and everything uncomfortably muffled underwater.

“Are you alright?” Burr says eventually, quietly.

“Hamilton is dead,” Lafayette says. He tries to make it angry, tries to make it sting, but it just comes out pathetic and sad. “Of course I am not alright.”

“Neither am I,” Burr says, and Lafayette realizes, for the first time, the exact weight of Burr and Hamilton’s relationship. Maybe he doesn’t like Burr very much, maybe he and Laurens spend a ridiculous amount of time making fun of him, but at the end of the day, he was Hamilton’s friend. Maybe not his closest friend, but his oldest friend. He’s grieving just as much as Lafayette is.

Lafayette sighs as he sits down heavily in Burr’s desk chair and presses his hands to the sides of his head.

“How are we going to tell Washington?” Burr asks, still standing near the entrance of the tent.

Lafayette’s chest twists painfully at the prospect of telling Washington that his favourite aide-de-camp is dead. He tries to imagine it, tries to imagine the scene playing out, when a terrible thought strikes him.

“ _Mon dieu_ , forget Washington – how will we tell Laurens?”

A look of horror flashes across Burr’s face before it’s schooled into its usual irritatingly neutral expression, but his eyes are uncharacteristically sympathetic. He puts a heavy hand on Lafayette’s shoulder. “We’ll have to figure that out once he comes back. Right now, we have to go tell Washington.”

Lafayette knows they have to tell Washington. Lee came to them for a reason, wanted them to be the ones to tell him. They _have_ to be the ones to tell him.

He stands up. His legs are lethargic, sluggish from shock or grief or exhaustion, he’s not sure, but he forces them to move. “Let’s go.”

They walk as fast as they can to Washington’s tent. Lafayette knows that their haste isn’t because of the rain, but he’s not sure why they’re rushing; Hamilton won’t come back no matter how quickly they tell Washington, he thinks cynically.

He’s halfway through the opening of Washington’s tent when he realizes that they forgot to knock, but Washington has already glanced up at him. He gives a ghost of a smile to Lafayette, then looks mildly surprised when Burr steps in behind him.

“Gentlemen,” he says politely. “Lafayette, I was about to send someone for you and Hamilton. I need you both to draft –”

“Sir,” Burr says solemnly. For the second time tonight, Lafayette is immensely grateful that Burr is with him. He doesn’t know how he could tell Washington by himself. He wonders, detachedly, if this is why Hamilton likes – _liked_ – Burr: he’s an anchor of certainty and deliberation that can keep Hamilton grounded when he gets too worked up, reminds him of the realness of the present time and to slow down, just a little bit.

Washington frowns, seeming to realize their unusual disposition and Lafayette can practically see him wonder what, exactly, Burr is doing here. “What is it?”

Lafayette doesn’t realize that he’s speaking until the words are halfway out of his mouth. “Sir, Hamilton has died.”

Watching the colour drain from Washington’s face as if he’s been shot in the chest is a sight that will haunt Lafayette for the rest of his life.

“You’re sure?” Washington asks, stretching the words out like sludge.

“Yes,” Burr says, and suddenly it’s real. The time between Lee coming to their tent and now was a limbo, where Lafayette and Burr were falling endlessly between the concept of dead and alive. Lafayette knew Hamilton was dead, of course, but in a detached sort of way. He was almost dubious of it, he realizes in hindsight, and that if Hamilton had walked into Burr’s tent then and there, he wouldn’t have been even half surprised, would have thrown what Lee said away and wholeheartedly accepted it as a joke. But now the General knows, and it’s carved into stone like an untimely grave: Alexander Hamilton is dead.

The silence in the tent is strangling him. He wants to scream in frustration and grief, wants to sit down on the floor of Washington’s tent and sob like a child until his tears rival the rain outside. He wants to intercept between Laurens and the devastation of tonight that’s roaring towards him like a wave. He wants to run away, away from Washington’s grief stricken face and Burr’s ambiguous expression and run through the rain, wants to feel it sting his skin painfully and wants to keep going until he makes it to Schuylkill River, and then… and then whatever he does won’t matter, he supposes, because he can throw himself into the water or he can sit at the shore and cry for all that he’s lost, but nothing will bring Alexander back.

“Tell me how,” Washington says, and the slight waver in his voice implies that it’s more a plea than an order, but Lafayette takes it as one anyway.

“They were coming back across the river when the British opened fire. They abandoned their ship and Hamilton – he drowned, sir.”

Washington opens his mouth, clearly about to respond, when the tent opens and someone comes barreling in, splashing water over Lafayette for the second time tonight in their uncaring haste. Lafayette turns around and his heart plummets to the ground when he sees John Laurens standing in the middle of the tent, dripping wet and breathing heavily much like Lee was before – unlike Lee, however, who had shock and sorrow clouding his features, there is nothing but animalistic fear in Laurens’ wide eyes as he stares at them in strained silence.

“Lee just told me –” Laurens manages to say, his eyes darting between Lafayette, Washington, and Burr. “Is it – is it true? Is it?”

Lafayette physically cannot draw the strength out of himself to tear Laurens’ soul in half. “Laurens,” he starts, but his voice betrays him, coming out tight and strangled, and that’s all the affirmation that Laurens seems to need.

The gut-wrenched moan he makes breaks Lafayette’s heart into a thousand pieces. Laurens stumbles forward, and Lafayette meets him halfway, wrapping his arms securely around his body as they sink to the ground together. Lafayette holds him tightly as Laurens chokes on his uncontrollable sobs, and he buries his head in Laurens’ shoulder and lets himself cry for the first time this damned night. It’s just he and Laurens, now, and they cry for the times they’ll sit alone together in the bar, for the cot that will remain empty in their tent as they hold each other at night, for forgiveness for the inevitable time that they move on, and for the loss of their dear friend Alexander.

He’s not sure how long they sit there on the ground, crying and rocking each other slowly, but eventually Laurens stops sobbing. A selfish part of Lafayette wishes he would keep crying just so that he could continue crying too. He grips Laurens’ elbows as they stand up together, half to support him and half to support himself.

“He never told me if he had any family,” Washington murmurs. “Is there anyone we can write to?”

“There’s a Hercules Mulligan in New York,” Burr says. “I’m not sure if there’s anyone else.”

“We were his family,” Laurens says brokenly, staring down at the ground with misty eyes. “There _is_ no one else.”

Washington opens a drawer in his desk and takes out a bottle of whiskey and several tumblers. He pours a generous amount of into the glasses and Lafayette thinks that the alcohol looks expensive enough that it should be saved for special occasions, but then he remembers what they’ll be drinking to.

Washington waits until they’ve all picked up a glass before he raises his own in the air. “To Alexander.”

“To Alexander,” they echo.

Washington raises his glass to his lips then stops short, looking like he’s just had an epiphany. His eyes are fixed on something far ahead of him. Lafayette is about to say something when Washington stands up abruptly, still staring at the same spot. Lafayette turns around, and –

Alexander Hamilton is standing at the opening of the tent, shivering and drenched to the bone.

Lafayette distantly hears a glass break on the ground, and then he realizes that it’s his. He thinks, wildly, that his mind is playing a terrible trick on him, and he’s mistaken someone for Hamilton, but no, it’s really him: his dark hair is soaked and sticking to his neck, clothes sticking to his body tightly, skin pale as a sheet, but it’s him, with the same shit-eating grin and intelligent spark in his eye that Lafayette had seen countless times before but somehow had forgotten until now.

He tries to find words, tries to think of something to possibly say to break the stunned silence or to say to the undead man in front of him, but he’s saved from that task when Laurens surges forward and spins Hamilton around in a hug before grabbing his face and planting a huge kiss to his blue-tinged lips.

“Jesus.” Lafayette tears his eyes away from Hamilton to look at Burr, who’s staring at the sight before him with wide eyes and shock written all over his face.

“It’s Alexander, actually.” Hamilton is clinging to Laurens like a sloth and grinning at Burr wickedly. “Don’t worry, people get us confused all the time.”

“Alexander,” Washington says, walking forward, and that breaks the spell.

“ _Esti de crosseur_ ,” Lafayette says, and he’s taking one step, another, and another until he’s got his arms wrapped around Hamilton, in his wet hair, on his neck, down his back, over his shoulder. “We thought you _died_.”

“I almost did, probably,” Hamilton says. “I was in the water for an eternity and a half, and by the time I got to shore no one was there. I thought I was the only one that made it out, so I was waiting for someone to swim up or for a body to float by or _something_ , but when I got back here I found out that they all fucking left without me.”

“Oh God, don’t worry about that,” Laurens says, leaning his head into the crook of Hamilton’s neck. “We’re never leaving you ever again.”

Lafayette laughs at that. It’s not funny and it probably wasn’t a joke, but he can’t help it: Hamilton is alive, here, and he starts laughing too, and Lafayette has never heard a better sound, he might set it as his ringtone. Laurens starts laughing too, and they’re all laughing and holding onto each other for dear life, like Hamilton might disappear if they let go, and it’s such a different scene than Lafayette and Laurens clinging to each other mere minutes ago, it’s so much more than he ever dared to ask for that he inwardly thanks a God he doesn’t believe in for blessing him with this moment.

“Alexander,” Washington says again, and Lafayette forces himself to untangle his limbs from the knot that they’ve all formed. Hamilton salutes, still smiling.

“Your Excellency. You’ll be pleased to know that we have successfully destroyed the bags of flour, and I am ready for service.”

Washington laughs, loud and just as hysterical as Lafayette’s from moments ago. He wraps his arm around him in a one-armed hug that Hamilton immediately tries to wriggle out of. “Son, you could have left all of the flour unopened for all I care. I’m glad you’re okay.”

Lafayette looks down at himself and realizes that the collar of his shirt is soaked with water from hugging Hamilton. “God, Alexander, you are _drenched_.”

“How long were you in the water for?” Laurens asks.

“Long enough for you to think I was dead, apparently,” Hamilton says over Burr’s shoulder, where he’s wrapped around the man in an unsolicited embrace. “How did that even happen?”

“We thought you died because Lee –” Laurens starts then pauses, his face darkening. “Lee.”

Hamilton slithers out of his one-sided hug with Burr and points at Laurens. “You know what,” he says viscously, “Lee is _snake_. He always hated us. I wouldn’t be surprised if he left me there on _purpose_ –”

Lafayette watches, mesmerized, as Hamilton spouts words and ideas out of his mouth like flames bursting from a fire. He’s not stunned or fascinated with the sight; not like he was years ago in the bar when he met Hamilton for the first time and watched him blaze by at the speed of light. He’s captured with the principle of it, of knowing that Hamilton and all that is him didn’t perish in the river, of knowing that he’s _here_ still, moving just as fast as ever, and always will, if Lafayette can help it.

“Alright, alright, enough.” Washington raises his hands in the air placatingly, as if he’s known Hamilton for such a brief amount of time that he thinks that will stop the man. “Hamilton, as strong as the mutual dislike between you and Lee is, I doubt he left you to die.”

Hamilton shudders, and whether it’s at the prospect of being abandoned in the river by his comrades or because he’s cold from his prolonged dip in the water, Lafayette isn’t sure. Washington, however, seems to take it as the latter.

“Go back to your tent and stay there until the rain stops, Alexander. You’re cold and tired, and there’s nothing left here for you to do. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Dismissed, all of you.”

“Yes, sir,” Hamilton says begrudgingly, as Laurens wraps his arm around his shoulders. Lafayette thanks, again, whatever deity seems to be watching over them that allowed Hamilton to be safe under his arm and not lost at the bottom of the river.

That night in the quiet of their tent, Lafayette, when he knows that Hamilton, sandwiched between he and Laurens, is asleep, whispers into the darkness: “Laurens, are you awake?”

He hears Laurens stir softly on the other end of the cot. “Yeah.”

“Did you know that Burr has a girlfriend?”

**Author's Note:**

> this wound up being way longer than i had originally anticipated, so thanks for reading! come talk to me on [tumblr](https://buskuta.tumblr.com).


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